


This Is Not My Aziraphale

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Discorporated Aziraphale (Good Omens), Imposter, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: “Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, sitting forward in his armchair and leaning towards Crowley, “I have something rather important to talk to you about.”Here it comes. Crowley drags himself up from his artful sprawl into a mere slouch. Aziraphale appears encouraged judging by his smile.“Well,” Aziraphale continues, his hands on his knees and still managing to tremble. Crowley wishes he hadn’t noticed that. “It has come to my attention- no, no, that’s not how it is. Crowley, these past years have been- bother! I practised this and now I can’t find any of the words I wanted!“I love you, Crowley."And it only gets worse from there
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 317
Collections: MoFu Birthdays





	This Is Not My Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callus_Ran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callus_Ran/gifts).



> Happy birthday Ran! I'm so glad that you're my friend and that I get to talk to you every day.
> 
> I hope you have a wonderful day and know that I love you very much!
> 
> (Thanks to D20Owlbear for the beta read, all mistakes are entirely my own fault)

_ He’s going to say it,  _ Crowley thinks with alarming clarity.  _ He’s actually going to say it and I’m not ready at all. _ He watches the way that Aziraphale tugs at his cuffs and straightens his lapels needlessly, over and over, working up to saying something important. He takes a subtle taste of the air and realises that, despite the number of empty wine bottles littering the table between them, Aziraphale is completely sober.

Crowley doesn’t  _ want _ to be sober right now. He’s enjoying the carefree warmth and ease that comes with a little too much wine, he doesn’t want to have this conversation today, because it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt one or both of them and, if he’s honest with himself, hurting one of them will only go on to hurt the other.

Aziraphale clears his throat and tugs his bowtie with intent. Despite himself, Crowley grits his teeth and subtly removes the alcohol from his bloodstream. He’s slightly less likely to trip over his words with a clearer head, after all.

_ It’s been months!  _ Crowley gripes to himself, somehow unable to express his unwillingness to have this conversation to Aziraphale’s soft, hopeful face.  _ Things are going so well, why does he have to upset everything now? _

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, sitting forward in his armchair and leaning towards Crowley, “I have something rather important to talk to you about.”

_ Here it comes. _ Crowley drags himself up from his artful sprawl into a mere slouch. Aziraphale appears encouraged judging by his smile.

“Well,” Aziraphale continues, his hands on his knees and still managing to tremble. Crowley wishes he hadn’t noticed that. “It has come to my attention- no, no, that’s not how it is. Crowley, these past years have been-  _ bother!  _ I practised this and now I can’t find any of the words I wanted!”

Crowley is struck with the image of Aziraphale standing before a mirror and reciting this mistake again and again until he was happy with the way he was going to destroy them. His heart fairly aches for Aziraphale but he can’t fix this for him, even if he would like to delay the inevitable that’s simply not a possibility now that Aziraphale has got it into his head to  _ say  _ it.

“Spit it out, then,” he says, as gently as he can manage.

Aziraphale looks up into his eyes and Crowley realises that he’s not wearing his sunglasses, when had it become a habit to take them off when he got to the bookshop? How long had it taken for him to drop that barrier after staring down Satan himself with Aziraphale? A week? A month? An hour?  _ Fuck,  _ but he wishes he was wearing them now.

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his stupid, beautiful eyes sparkling with something more solid than hope, less tangible than certainty. “I am  _ in _ love with you, have been for rather a while.”

And there it is, out in the open, ugly and real between them in a way that Crowley simply can’t cope with. Wishing that he could look away from Aziraphale, Crowley swallows thickly whilst feeling as stuck as a butterfly pinned to a board, Aziraphale’s gaze no less piercing and immobilising.

“I see,” Crowley says after a period of silence that stretched a touch too long. “That must be quite the struggle for you.”

Aziraphale is shocked, Crowley can see that in the way he stills to the point of no longer breathing. It makes his slow blink all the more deliberate and meaningful. Crowley wants to disappear into the sofa cushions.

“Not really, no,” Aziraphale shakes his head at last, “It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done, loving you. I realised I’ve been doing it for centuries, I was just too stubborn to acknowledge what it was that I’ve been feeling all these years.”

He looks so fucking pleased with himself, like he has no idea of the agony he’s putting Crowley through.  _ That’s because he doesn’t,  _ Crowley corrects himself almost automatically,  _ he doesn’t know what an emotionally constipated fuck up you are. He thinks this is going to end with the impossible outcome because he doesn’t know about the knots you’ve tied yourself in, you stupid, slithery fuck up. _

“Right, great,” Crowley nods and finally manages to look away.

“Do you–” Aziraphale’s voice trembles and Crowley pinches himself on the thigh to keep from reaching out. “Do you not have anything else to say?”

Crowley can’t help himself, he looks back into Aziraphale’s storm-cloud eyes and almost breaks, almost breaks apart in exactly the way he wants to, but just as he senses the first crack in his stupid shell, his metaphorical fingers slip and he loses the feeling.

“Not really,” Crowley shrugs and he hates himself in one smooth motion. “Was there something in particular that I should say?”

Aziraphale’s shoulders roll in on themselves a little, shrinking him where he sits.

“No, I suppose not, not if you don’t want to.”

Silence grows thick and oppressive between them, it’s the worst-case scenario for both of them and it’s all Crowley’s fault. This is so much harder than Crowley had anticipated, and he’d anticipated it being really fucking difficult.  _ Of course _ he loves Aziraphale, he has done for as long as he can remember. And, sure, he’s spent a fair chunk of that time wishing that he didn’t, that he didn’t have to carry this irritating, undying flame for a prissy, fussy, oblivious angel who called him names and routinely hurt his feelings. He’d tried to fight it, to kill it, to avoid it, but it seems like the one constant in his long, long life was destined to be that he loves Aziraphale and cannot have him.

An immortal life lived in snatches of accidental affection, the softness that only comes with absent-mindedness, of patience never rewarded, well, it does things to a demon. As much as Crowley loves Aziraphale, he also deeply hates that he loves him.

It’s not even the obvious things that make Crowley feel this way, the awful magic tricks, the ridiculous clothes, the complete inability to act like someone who has lived through any part of the 21 st century, the fact that he’s a literal angel and Crowley’s supposed natural enemy.

Alright, it’s a little bit that last one.

But only because that has made Crowley’s love a bloody liability when it comes to Aziraphale’s safety. How can he love something when the very existence of that love threatens the safety of the one he loves? Crowley knows that he’s cursed and damned, but sometimes these punishments just seem unnecessarily sadistic.

Crowley hates loving Aziraphale because of how hopeless it makes him feel, how undeserving and lowly, how utterly wretched. Even when he became aware of Aziraphale beginning to return his love, hundreds of years ago as they shared a drink in a Romanian tavern, Crowley hated it.

Aziraphale doesn’t love him in the way that Crowley wants to be loved, he loves the idea of what Crowley had been and what Aziraphale hopes he might become again in the future. He feels like a caterpillar, kept safe and nourished purely because Aziraphale craves the beauty of the butterfly he might become. Except Crowley isn’t ever going to become a butterfly, he’s a demon and he was so sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t ever be able to love that part of him.

So, yeah, Crowley has his reasons for encasing his love in a solid shell of hatred. He’s been keeping them both safe from so many things, and now the habit is ingrained. He’s been working on relaxing it ever since that day at Tadfield Airbase, knowing that many of his fears are redundant now. It’s just that six thousand years of conditioning takes more than a few months to breakthrough. He thought he’d have more time, Aziraphale always moved so slowly with these things, he thought he’d at least be able to explain some of this to Aziraphale by the time they reached this point. Instead, he’s been caught unawares and fucked everything up before it’s even begun.

Aziraphale clears his throat and knocks Crowley out of his gently spiralling self-loathing. He glances up and sees the hurt all over Aziraphale’s face, the hurt he put there.  _ Just say it, you coward, _ Crowley scolds himself as he watches Aziraphale pull his emotions back inside.

“It’s getting rather late, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s tone is more pointed than usual, less of a friendly hint and more of a firm shove.

“Right, right, yeah,” Crowley mumbles as he makes to stand, “I’ll be seeing you, then?” He does nothing to disguise the hope in his voice, knowing it’s more than he deserves and yet needing the reassurance that he hasn’t ruined everything between them.

“Saturday, for the theatre. I’ll meet you there.”

It’s not nothing. Crowley breathes out in relief before offering a tight smile.

“G’night, angel.”

Aziraphale isn’t there when Crowley approaches the theatre, slinking along the pavement with his fingers jammed in the pockets of his jeans. He’s been doing a lot of thinking over the past few days and it’s got him in a sour mood that only a few hours in Aziraphale’s company can cure. Although even that isn’t a sure thing, not with how he fucked up last time.

It’s not like Aziraphale to be anything other than perfectly punctual and yet, he isn’t here. Crowley glances around, looking for that white-blond fluff approaching but there’s no sign of him. He’s got the tickets, too, so Crowley is somewhat stuck waiting around outside for him. He affects a casually disinterested lean against the wall near the box office and waits.

After a few minutes, feeling distinctly like he’s being punished, Crowley asks the man at the box office if perhaps there’s been a ticket left for him. There hasn’t. All the other patrons filter in and Crowley is left alone in the foyer, no ticket, no Aziraphale, no explanation.

Trying very hard to look like he hasn’t been stood up, Crowley kicks away from the wall and heads back onto the street. He deserves this, he knows he does. Aziraphale offered him something very precious and Crowley didn’t even have the sense to be grateful for it, he was just prickly and dismissive. He’s really brought this on himself. Well, it must be time to apologise.

Crowley heads towards Soho, regretting not bringing the Bentley as the autumn chill begins to grip the evening air. He pops into a Patisserie Valerie to pick up some apology cake, it’s not Aziraphale’s favourite but it’s after 8 on a Saturday evening. Even angels have to make do with what’s available, sometimes.

The door is open when Crowley reaches the bookshop, not just unlocked but actually open. He’s still a few metres away and trying to recall a single other occasion that he’s seen the shop like this but he draws a blank. Quickening his pace, Crowley’s heart starts doing ridiculous and unnecessary human things in his chest. At a near run, Crowley throws himself into the shop only to find Aziraphale quite safe and happy, talking with someone who looks all too much like a prospective customer.

It’s unthinkable. Aziraphale, entertaining a customer, at this time of the day? It’s so very out of character that Crowley knows he’s in far worse trouble than he’d thought. He steps up to Aziraphale, ignoring the human, and holds out his box of apology cake.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale says, taking a pace backwards. “What are you doing here?”

“You stood me up! You stood me up and I get it, I do, I know you’re hurt. I’m sorry. Truly, I am sorry. I brought you cake. It’s not your favourite but I’ll make it up to you. I will.” He’s still holding the box out towards Aziraphale as he babbles.

“Did we have plans tonight?” Aziraphale asks, taking the box at last. He sets it on a table, on top of a pile of books, without looking away from Crowley. “It must have slipped my mind.”

Crowley winces, he  _ is _ being punished for his reaction the other night.

“Right, yeah,” Crowley says, nodding. “I guess it must have.”

The human customer attempts to interject, he’s holding a first edition, first impression of A.A. Milne’s Now We Are Six which is practically a declaration of war in this shop. Crowley smirks and slinks back, always happy to watch his angel deal with the more tenacious customers.

“As I was saying,” the human begins whilst shooting a filthy look at Crowley, “there’s no price on this and I wanted to know what you want for it.”

“Make me an offer,” Aziraphale says mildly.

Crowley nearly cackles with delight. This is a new ploy which means fresh entertainment. The human makes a show of looking the book over once more, flipping open the cover and inspecting the binding.

“I suppose I’d be happy to pay £50 for it in this condition.” He’s shooting far too low with this offer and Crowley knows it. He’d found that book for Aziraphale a couple of decades ago and it had been worth a great deal more than £50 back then.

Despite his role in the drama being silent audience, Crowley scoffs at the offer, earning himself a matching pair of sharp looks from Aziraphale and the human.

“Don’t mind him,” says Aziraphale, turning his back on Crowley, “£50 sounds very reasonable.”

“What!?” Crowley and the human cry out in unison, both equally shocked at Aziraphale’s acceptance.

“Look, angel, punishing me by ‘forgetting’ our plans is one thing, but there’s no need for this madness.” Crowley reaches over and plucks the book out of the grasp of the speechless human. “I think you’d best be leaving now,” he says with an elephant-sized dose of demonic suggestion.

“Yes, somewhere else to be, yes,” the man says, sounding distant and unfocused.

Crowley watches the human step away and leave the shop, only to stand on the pavement just beyond the door for a full minute before picking a direction of travel. Perhaps he’d hit the man a bit too hard with the manipulation.

“Right, so what was that in aid of?” Crowley demands once the man has left properly, gesturing wildly to the general area around Aziraphale. “Were you just hoping that I’d intervene before he could get away or what?”

Aziraphale lifts his chin a little and sniffs.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Crowley. Why would I be upset with you?”

Crowley opens his mouth to respond but what could he say?  _ You told me you loved me and I’m too much of a fuck-up to say anything? I’ve been leading you on for literally centuries and now you’re finally able to return my feelings, I choke and want to pretend everything is how it was before? Don’t be stupid. _

Defeated, Crowley closes his mouth again and just goes to put the book back on the shelf, where it lives.

“Well, we’ve missed the show so I suppose I’ll be off, then,” Crowley says, hating how hopeful he sounds even as he’s trying to leave.

“I– uh, I was about to open a bottle of s-something or other, if you’d care to join me?” Aziraphale hasn’t offered an invitation that hesitant since the 1990s but Crowley sags in relief all the same.

“Might as well,” he says, too coolly, and immediately regrets it. He should be able to show Aziraphale that he’s actually  _ happy _ to spend this time with him! It’s not a hardship! “Thanks,” he adds.

Crowley goes to close the shop door, preparing to turn the sign and lock it like he always does for Aziraphale when the trading day (or hour) is concluded, but Aziraphale beats him to it. Coming up short, he turns towards the back room instead and tries to shake the feeling of wrongness that settles about him.

Needing to do something, Crowley fetches two clean glasses from the sideboard and sets them on the coffee table by the sofa. He’s about to drop into his customary sprawl when Aziraphale butts up beside him and uses the side of his body to push Crowley further along the sofa before sitting. Overloaded with an excess of bodily contact, Crowley jerks away and settles in an armchair instead, staring at Aziraphale through his dark lenses and feeling absolutely no desire to remove them.

They drink and chat and Crowley simply cannot shake the feeling that  _ something _ is off. Aziraphale is both too friendly and not familiar enough at once, he jumps if Crowley makes any sudden movements but keeps reaching out to pat the back of Crowley’s hand in a way that he never has before. The conversation never quite gets to the carefree, teasing levels of silly that they both usually enjoy, instead it stays superficial and almost politely cordial.

He knows that he’s got no-one to blame but himself for this strained atmosphere and confusing mix of signals, he ruined everything, just like he always does.

After only two bottles of wine, Crowley’s misery is starting to seep out into the lines of his face, he can feel the downward turn of his mouth and can’t bear the thought of Aziraphale trying to cheer him up, or worse, not caring at all. So he makes his excuses and leaves the bookshop, Aziraphale’s vague and open-ended invitation floating out after him.

He decides to give Aziraphale a few more days to work through his feelings, it really is the least that Crowley can do, after all. However, if things don’t improve soon, Crowley might be left without a single friend in the world and that’s not a thought he wants to entertain.

Once home, Crowley scolds and mists his plants, feeling just a little helpless and a whole lot useless in the face of a problem entirely his own making. A week ought to do the trick, he thinks as he climbs into bed, long enough that his absence should be noted, but not so long as to make the angel worry after him. With that decided, Crowley closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

He makes it through two whole days before he’s back at the bookshop, looking for a few hours in Aziraphale’s company.

The first thing that Crowley notices upon walking into the bookshop is that there are fewer books. Not a huge number, he thinks, no more than ten missing. Seeing as that’s more than Aziraphale usually sells in a particularly good year, it puts Crowley on his guard. The second thing the Crowley notices is the box from Patisserie Valerie, unmoved from where Aziraphale had set it on Saturday evening.

Wanting to avoid a repeat of whatever  _ last time _ had been about, Crowley doesn’t ask Aziraphale about the missing books, he merely meanders around the shop in a casual kind of drifting wander until he ends up beside Aziraphale’s ledger. There are no entries for Sunday, which is to be expected, but eight entries for Monday. Aziraphale has sold eight books in one day.

Crowley scans the list, his heart in his throat, as he tries to work out if Aziraphale is only selling books that Crowley himself has given as gifts. That fear recedes soon enough, only to be replaced with a new confusion. There are a couple of Georgette Heyer novels which shouldn’t be difficult to replace, a first edition E. M. Forster that might prove trickier, a short story anthology by Terry Jones that Crowley knows is still in print, two seventh edition Thomas Hardy books that Aziraphale might actually have sold under normal conditions, and two first edition Oscar Wilde folios that he would never have parted with. And he’d sold them for a fraction of their actual value.

Selling his books, not eating his cakes, acting strangely around Crowley, it’s all starting to add up into something more sinister than Crowley had wanted to consider.

He moves with practised ease, putting clear floor between himself and Aziraphale whilst mindfully counteracting everything about his presence that might have said “predator”. He’s about to cross a line that he hasn’t dared approach in over 3000 years, the memory of Aziraphale’s displeasure and contempt has always been enough of a deterrent but now he thinks it might be the only way to be sure of what he’s dealing with.

“How would you feel about dinner at The Clove Club tonight, Zira?” Crowley says as casually as he can manage.

Aziraphale looks up from the book he’s been sucked into with a questioning little hum.

“I asked if you fancied The Clove Club for dinner tonight, honestly, _Zira_ , pay attention,” Crowley repeats, his heart far too loud in his narrow chest as he emphasises the forbidden word.

“Oh, yes, if you like,” Aziraphale says, his eyes already dropping back to the page.

Crowley is across the room in three strides, one more stride and he has Aziraphale pinned against the far wall by the throat. It takes two seconds and Aziraphale doesn’t see it coming at all.

“Alright, who are you? What’s going on?” Crowley demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“I– I don’t understand. What is this? C– Crowley, unhand me!” Aziraphale bats ineffectually at Crowley’s hand, another point against him. The real Aziraphale is far stronger than Crowley and would never tolerate being pushed around his own bookshop like this, completely unprovoked.

“You are not  _ my _ Aziraphale,” Crowley growls, “so who are you and where is he. Answer quickly enough and I may let you live.”

Aziraphale pales at the threat which might be the smartest thing Crowley has seen him do so far.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Crowley!” He gives a stronger push against Crowley’s chest but it’s not enough to free himself. “I  _ am _ Aziraphale!”

Despite the growing pit of fear in his stomach, Crowley laughs bitterly.

“You really aren’t. I’ll admit that you picked a good time to switch, but you’re not fooling me any more.”

Aziraphale swallows convulsively, his eyes wide in genuine panic. It tugs at Crowley’s heart more than it should, he knows he’s holding an imposter but that’s still his angel’s face looking terrified and on the verge of tears.

“How can I prove myself? There must be something you can ask me that only I would know!”

Briefly, Crowley wonders if this was the ploy all along, an attempt to get the secret of their failed executions out of them. If it was, it wasn’t ever going to work. They’d had contingency plans for this sort of situation ever since the world had failed to end.

With a nasty grin spreading across his face, Crowley leans closer to Aziraphale’s pale and panicked face.

“What’s my full name?”

A nervous smile flickers across Aziraphale’s face as he prepares to answer, Crowley can see that he thinks he’s got this one in the bag.

“Your name? That’s all?” Aziraphale swallows again. “Anthony J. Crowley, and before you ask, the J doesn’t stand for anything, you just like how it sounds.”

A serpentine tongue flicks out from between Crowley’s grinning lips and his free hand comes up to pull his sunglasses from his face, revealing fully golden eyes.

“Wrong answer, angel. Want to try again with telling me who you are? Or shall I resort to more persuasive methods of interrogation?” Crowley opens his mouth to reveal his pointed teeth, dripping with venom.

His captive presses his lips together in answer, not wanting to give any kind of answer despite being unable to tear his eyes away from Crowley’s venomous mouth. Crowley angles his head to allow one drop of venom to fall onto his captive’s skin. It hisses and fizzles, burning like nothing on earth. The imposter screams in agony, writhing and bucking to try and free himself from Crowley’s ever-tightening grasp.

“Definitely an angel, then,” Crowley says, licking his lips, “imagine how much more that will hurt when I pump a full bite into your bloodstream. Last chance.”

Crowley takes his time, tugging the angel’s collar aside to reveal enough skin for sinking his teeth into and lowering his mouth by degrees.

“Fine! I’ll talk! I’ll talk, just don’t hurt me again, please!”

In any other situation, Crowley may have found himself moved by these pleas, but Aziraphale was missing, possibly hurt, in danger, scared, or something worse that didn’t bear thinking about. Mercy is a long way away from his thoughts.

“Start talking and hope that I like what you’ve got to tell me,” he says simply.

The angel, smart enough not to give his name, spills everything he knows as quickly as he can. Aziraphale has been collected by Heaven and secured for the duration of the mission, the Archangels are still too worried about news of his survival being spread around the lower ranks. Clearly, this fear is as ridiculous as it is late. The horse has long since bolted and the stable door is still swinging in the wind. They definitely still believe that a war is coming, and they want all the advantages they can get against the other side. The plan was to replace Aziraphale and use Crowley as a source of information about Hell.

Crowley laughs uproariously at that, both at the over-confidence of Heaven and at their utter lack of understanding about Aziraphale, Crowley, and their relationship. Of course they would think Crowley was something they could control and manipulate, they lacked the imagination to see beyond their petty goals.

Pulling back from the shaking angel, Crowley concentrates on returning his teeth to their more usual appearance. He needs a plan because, as cool as he would look attempting a one demon assault on Heaven, he’s smart enough to know that he has a less than zero chance of making it out alive.

“This is Aziraphale’s actual corporation, isn’t it?” Crowley already knows the answer, he’d have been able to smell a replacement immediately, but the angel hasn’t earnt his trust yet.

“Yes, it is,” he confirms, “I didn’t want to take it! I don’t even like being corporeal!”

That is true enough, Crowley realises, and he’s not been doing much to improve the experience. Hauling the angel by the collar, Crowley drags him to the middle of the shop and summons a chair to the centre of Aziraphale’s circular rug. The angel sits and doesn’t protest when Crowley materialises infernal bonds about his wrists and ankles.

“If you stay there, sit still, and vacate the body when Aziraphale returns, then no more harm will come to you. If you cause me any kind of problem, I will make it my personal business to make the rest of your eternity a living nightmare. Do you understand?” It feels awful to threaten someone wearing Aziraphale’s familiar and much-loved face, to cause those eyes to well up, that bottom lip to tremble, but Crowley forces himself to see past it.

The angel nods, clearly fighting a losing battle against the onslaught of tears.

Before he can do something ridiculous and soft, like comfort the angel who has been actively deceiving him, Crowley leaves the bookshop and locks the door behind him.

Angels and demons, being of the same original stock, are actually very difficult to tell apart once you get past the external window dressing. This is something that Crowley has used to his advantage more than once before, when carrying out his side of the Arrangement. It’s the work of mere moments to change his clothing into something cream and robin egg blue, less fitted around the hips and legs, more tailored around the shoulders. It takes a little longer and a considerable amount of concentration to change the bile yellow of his eyes into molten gold, something that suggested holiness rather than damnation. Then he’s on his way to head office, as it were.

He’d seen that little demonic nobody produce hellfire at Aziraphale’s attempted execution so he’s confident that he will at least have that as defence if he’s stopped by anyone. The last challenge is simply walking to the escalator without sinking to Hell instead. The trick of it is all in faith, you have to believe that you can do it, that you are in the right place.

Crowley strides across the lobby, keeping his eyes fixed on the ascending escalator and his mind concentrating on Aziraphale. The floor feels springy underfoot, like a sodden peat bog, and water seeps into his shoes where he sinks just below the surface. Gritting his teeth and pressing forward, Crowley sinks no lower and finally steps onto the solid platform that will bear him upwards through dimensions.

In their own ways, Heaven and Hell both work on requirement. There are no floor plans, no helpful maps or guides, nothing has a fixed location. In Heaven, one need only walk a few steps in order to locate a room containing whatever it is one might need. In Hell, the same mechanism provides whatever the seeker feels they deserve, which is a very useful way of punishing those with poor self-esteem.

All Crowley needs is Aziraphale. He just needs the room where Aziraphale is being kept, preferably without any angels standing guard. With this thought taking up the entirety of his mind, Crowley steps off the escalator and strides purposefully into Heaven.

It’s emptier and more sterile than he remembers, although he’s seen Hell go through significant changes over the millennia as well, so it’s only to be expected. A door appears on the wall to his right and, after glancing around to see if anyone is looking at him, Crowley darts inside.

He can’t believe his eyes or his luck.

Aziraphale is sat in the centre of the pure white room, cross-legged on the floor, with his eyes closed. He looks as though he might be meditating if he went in for that sort of thing. Crowley takes a tentative step forward, one hand extended towards the figure on the floor.

At once, Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and fix Crowley with a glare the colour of an ocean storm. Crowley opens his mouth to speak, his fingers spreading in a gesture of peace, but before he can make a sound, Aziraphale is on his feet and lifting Crowley by the throat with one hand.

“This is a new trick,” Aziraphale says, cold and steady, “I wonder what you hope to achieve with this angelic facsimile of Crowley.”

Clawing at Aziraphale’s fingers and struggling to remember that he really doesn’t need to breathe in a place with no atmosphere, Crowley loses control over his disguised eyes. He can see the moment the colour changes in the way Aziraphale gasps and falters. Crowley twists himself free, leaping back until he’s pressed into the corner of the too-bright room.

“It’s really me, angel. I came for you.” Crowley’s voice is hoarse and painful, but he can’t not speak.

“Looking like that?” Aziraphale says with a smirk and Crowley can’t help smiling back.

“I have  _ standards. _ ” The inflection is important.

Aziraphale’s face crumples and he rushes to Crowley, exuding apology and soothing energy. He’s so much easier to read up here, everything seems just a little closer to the surface. Still, Crowley stops him getting too close, his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders keeping him at arm’s length.

“What’s my full name?” he asks, hopeful.

Aziraphale smiles so warmly and indulgently that Crowley almost forgets he’s waiting for an answer.

“Your full name is Anthony Janthony Crowley because you are the most ridiculous creature to ever exist.”

Crowley’s cheeks ache with the width of his grin as he pulls Aziraphale all the way into his arms. It’s OK now, they are back together and nothing can stop them. Crowley buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, holding him as tightly as he can.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, angel.” Crowley’s not even aware that he’s speaking but the apologies tumble out of him all the same.

Aziraphale pulls away just enough to bring them face to face.

“Whatever do you have to be sorry for?” he asks.

“You’ve been here for days!” Crowley is distraught to find that he’s crying, mostly in relief but there’s guilt in there as well. “And I couldn’t tell right away that it wasn’t you! I thought you were just mad at me.”

He stops there, suddenly painfully aware of why he’d come to that conclusion. All of his stupid fears and objections seem so insignificant now. He almost lost Aziraphale through this, what if he misses his chance completely? Spends so long waiting to be ready that the next catastrophe hits and Aziraphale is taken from him forever? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

There are gentle fingertips on his cheek, brushing away a tear, and Aziraphale is saying something in a low and soothing voice, but Crowley can’t focus, not when he has this great burning need eating up his insides.

“I love you!” he blurts out, speaking right over Aziraphale’s reassurances. “I love you and I should have said it last week but I’m a coward and I thought I needed more time.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to be overwhelmed to the point of tears, it seems.

“Oh, my dear, my darling, I  _ know _ that. I wasn’t upset with you when I sent you away that night, I was upset with myself and I didn’t want you to see that and feel pressured into saying something you weren’t ready for.” Aziraphale’s tears fall from his round cheeks and Crowley can only think about how unfair it is that this angel is stuck loving him. “I  _ know _ you love me, Crowley, I never doubted that.”

It’s all a bit too much, then, or a lot too much, either way, Crowley can only cling to Aziraphale, prise open the battered shell around his heart and let the love pour out of it. Everything is closer to the surface up here, if there’s anywhere that Aziraphale will be able to feel the depth of Crowley’s love and the ferocity of his terror at having it used against them, it’s here. Aziraphale seems to understand and it’s a relief.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says eventually, “I’m thrilled with this turn of events, truly, but was this a rescue or a social call?”

“Rescue, definitely a rescue.” Crowley pulls himself together and focuses on fixing his eyes again. “So, ha, how do we get you back to Earth?”

“I’ll need a body,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully.

Crowley grins, knowing he’s done something right already.

“Sorted, angel. It’s waiting for you at home,” he confirms, punctuating with a pleased little nod.

“Oh! Marvellous,” Aziraphale beams and Crowley has to look away or risk going blind from the shining light of it. “I just need to get back to that room with the globe in it.”

Crowley nods again, that should be pretty easy, all things considered. He takes Aziraphale’s hand in his and turns back to the door, opening it a crack to peek out. Easing the door closed again, he turns back to Aziraphale and takes a deep breath.

“Would you like the good news or the bad news?” he asks brightly.

“Good news, please.”

“Smart choice,” Crowley says, trying to mean it, “the good news is that I have found the globe! It’s just the other side of this door right now.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow.

“What’s the bad news?”

Crowley clears his throat and looks down.

“The Archangel Michael is heading this way.”

This is where any suave hero worth his salt would really start to shine, Crowley thinks to himself, there would be a secret door or a nifty gadget that would solve all his problems. All he has is an incorporeal angel, a demonic corporation, and the ability to summon hellfire at will.

He smacks the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration. O _ f course! _ The answer was right there.

“Angel, I need you to get inside me.”

Aziraphale blushes to the roots of his hair, which is really far too adorable for Crowley to deal with right now. He doesn’t even have a circulatory system, how is he  _ doing _ that?

“I really don’t think that this is the time for us to discuss any, ah _,_ _carnal_ desires we might have for our relationship, dear,” Aziraphale manages to say.

“I’m in love with an idiot,” Crowley says adoringly, shaking his head. “No, get your mind out of the gutter. Get inside my corporation! We know it works!”

Realisation dawns on Aziraphale’s face like a particularly slow sunrise. Then Michael’s voice is just outside and there’s no longer any time to mess about. Aziraphale presses himself between the atoms of Crowley’s corporation and tucks up small, somewhere behind his heart.  _ Sap, _ Crowley thinks whilst trying not to be overwhelmed with his own love.

The door swings open and Crowley meets Michael’s eyes with a wicked grin. Her face contorts through confusion, shock, horror, and finally, fear. Just as she seems to be getting herself under control, Crowley summons a ball of hellfire and holds it in his palm.

“Wha– wher– ho–” she stutters through a litany of unformed questions. “ _ How?” _

“That’s really not your concern now, is it?” Crowley says cheerfully, rolling the hellfire from one hand to the other. “I seem to recall you agreeing to leave us alone not so long ago, you do remember that, don’t you?”

Michael nods, her mouth hanging slack as she watches the hellfire in Crowley’s hands.

“Not very angelic of you to break your word, now, is it?”

She shakes her head to say no and then shakes it again as if clearing a fog.

“I agree, I was on my way to release Aziraphale, actually,” she’s nervous and clearly trying to cover it with bluster. Crowley isn’t buying it.

“Luckily for you, I’ve taken care of that,” Crowley says, offering no further explanation. “Now, you should have no problem letting me leave here.”

Michael doesn’t even answer, she just backs out of the room and closes the door behind her. Crowley waits a beat before extinguishing the flame in his hand and reaching for the door handle, picturing the escalator hall as firmly as he can.

He almost gasps with relief when, upon opening the door, he’s greeted with the main exit from Heaven and no angels in sight. Not really believing that he’s getting away with this, frankly, rather underwhelming rescue, Crowley takes long, hurried strides towards the escalators and trots down the moving stairs, knowing that there’s no such thing as too fast when escaping from Heaven.

He doesn’t slow down until he’s back at the door to the bookshop, panting with exertion and terrified by the thought of finding his captive gone. Thankfully, the fake Aziraphale is exactly where Crowley left him, bound to the chair and looking nervous.

“You!” Crowley cries, advancing on the hapless angel with one accusatory finger. “Get out of that body now, go on! Back to Heaven with you!”

The angel struggles against the shackles until Crowley snaps his fingers and releases them. Immediately, Aziraphale’s corporation goes slack, slumping forward in the chair. It looks so much like he’s died that Crowley feels a pang of grief, despite knowing that Aziraphale is currently wrapped around his heart.

He reaches for the corporation’s face, holding it gently between his palms.

“Alright, Aziraphale, I’ve rolled out the red carpet for you.” Crowley feels stupid, talking to himself in the empty bookshop, holding up a ragdoll of Aziraphale.

Nothing happens for long enough that Crowley begins to worry, wondering if he’s messed up the one thing Aziraphale really needed from him, and then there’s Grace and love flowing through his hands. It strokes its way along his arms, surrounding his body like a lover’s embrace, and finally filling Aziraphale’s corporation.

The last drop of Aziraphale’s essence leaves Crowley’s fingertips and he makes to draw his hands away, only to find Aziraphale’s hands covering them and holding him close. Stormcloud eyes meet his gaze, so impossibly full of love that Crowley doesn’t know where to put it all.

Slowly, Aziraphale’s hands glide up Crowley’s arms, over his shoulders, and up to hold his face. They draw him closer until Crowley can feel the light flow of Aziraphale’s breath against his lips and then they are kissing. Lips pressing against lips, arms wrapping around bodies, and enough sensation to last Crowley through a hundred lonely nights.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, breathless against Crowley’s jaw, “Thank you for finding me.”

“Always, always, you’re mine and I’m yours,” Crowley says, ignoring the wobble in his voice.

Aziraphale stands, still holding Crowley to him and bringing their bodies flush.

“However did you work it out, you clever thing?”

Crowley swallows audibly, dreading breaking the news to Aziraphale who has, really, already had quite a bad week.

“I brought you a cake and he didn’t eat it.” Aziraphale’s lifted eyebrow indicates his knowledge that it would have taken more than that alone. Crowley continues. “I walked in on him trying to sell a book I’d bought you, stopped it, of course, but that was suspicious. Then, well,” Crowley pulls away a little, reluctant to admit his failure in such close quarters. “He sold eight of your books, including two of the Wilde folios, I’m so sorry, angel. We’ll get them back, I promise.”

Aziraphale laughs and pulls Crowley close again.

“I don’t care about that, love, not compared to being back here with you.” He kisses Crowley’s mouth and silences a protest. “Now, tell me about the rest of it.”

Crowley casts him a wary look.

“Starting to doubt that I brought the right angel home, you know,” he scowls and Aziraphale laughs, “OK, fine, so I was getting suspicious but I didn’t want to tip him off or outright accuse you, so I did the thing I’m never supposed to do.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm.

“You didn’t!”

Crowley nods, looking away to hide a smirk.

“I didn’t know what else to do! I had to do it twice because he wasn’t paying attention the first time!”

Aziraphale is smiling just as widely as Crowley, catching him under the chin with one crooked finger in order to bring their lips together once more.

“You’re a menace, Crowley, you’re lucky I love you so much.”

“I know I am, lucky, I mean.”

“I forgive you for” Aziraphale shudders with pantomime disgust, “calling me ‘Zira’, just never again, please?”

Crowley laughs and kisses him again.

“Never, I promise.”


End file.
